his food."
"What do you think he'll do?"
"As I said before, dear, you know as much about that as I do. Whatever he does it will be to please himself, you can be sure of that; what he terms the right course. Anyway, we can only wait and see."
Lizzie couldn't understand it. Acceptance in no way matched her
husband's character; yet on the Monday he went to the Works as if nothing untoward had happened. All day she had waited for a phone call from Henry to say that her husband had smashed up the showrooms. But he had returned shortly after five and eaten his dinner. Years ago she had arranged that they had their dinner sharp at six; he would have had only a light lunch at a nearby cafe at noon. Afterwards he went to the Boys' Club. He had for years done two evenings a week at the Boys'
Club, Mondays and Fridays. She could never understand why, of all the hobbies and pursuits he could have taken up, he should give his spare time to a group of boys, but especially these who were mostly from Bog's End and would be a rowdy crew. He had never been fond of
children. She knew he could have done without having even a daughter, and he had certainly seen to it over the years that she herself did not fall pregnant again.
12. By the end of the week her fears had subsided, for he was still acting normally; at least he was keeping to character. She had quizzed Andrew as to how the staff viewed his attitude, and he had said that at least those in the workshop felt he had obviously decided to make the best of a bad job, and that he must have thought it a bad job when Mr.
Brooker had picked Joe Stanhope to take his place in the running of the Works. But then, as everybody knew, Joe had been there a long time and been head of the workshop and what he didn't know about cars wasn't worth learning.
Her husband had taken all this without any show of retaliation. There was something wrong somewhere. It was this feeling of wanting to find out more that caused her, on the Friday night, to pay her first visit to Henry's cottage.
It was getting dusk when she left the house, but she knew her way, for she had made it her business in the daylight to find out where it lay.
And now, having left her car in the lane, she knocked on the door.
It was some time before it was opened; and there he was in his
shirt-sleeves. He was standing with his back to the light of the room and so she couldn't see the expression on his face, but his voice told her of his pleasure when he said, "Oh, my dear, come in.
Come in," and his two hands drew her immediately into a long room.
"I've just finished washing up," he said.
"Fries seem easy until you've got to tackle the greasy dishes. Sit down. Sit down. Come to the fire."
He led her down the room towards a large, stone, open fireplace where a log fire was burning.
"I've just lit it," he said.
"It's the first time this year, but it was turning cold. I love a log fire." He kept talking as he pressed her down on to the cushions of a large wicker couch. Then, dropping down on to the edge of it, his hands still holding hers, he said, "Oh, my dear. I'm ... I'm delighted to see you. But how did you find your way? It's nearly dark."
She spoke for the first time, saying, "I ... I did some detective work during the week."
They were looking at each other in silence; then the realisation of her intention straightaway brought them clinging tightly together, their mouths hungry to express their feelings. When it was over they lay, their cheeks against the cushion, their glances holding tight.
And when he said softly, "I've got to say it out aloud: I love you.
Lizzie. I never thought I'd say that to a woman ever again in my life;
but I do, I love you. "
She put her hand up and touched his cheek. There was a light stubble on it. She did not say iz6
now, "And I love you. Henry," but "How old are you?"
He smiled as he said, "Forty-two and I'm sticking to that right to the very last day, because I'll be forty-three next
"What do you think he'll do?"
"As I said before, dear, you know as much about that as I do. Whatever he does it will be to please himself, you can be sure of that; what he terms the right course. Anyway, we can only wait and see."
Lizzie couldn't understand it. Acceptance in no way matched her
husband's character; yet on the Monday he went to the Works as if nothing untoward had happened. All day she had waited for a phone call from Henry to say that her husband had smashed up the showrooms. But he had returned shortly after five and eaten his dinner. Years ago she had arranged that they had their dinner sharp at six; he would have had only a light lunch at a nearby cafe at noon. Afterwards he went to the Boys' Club. He had for years done two evenings a week at the Boys'
Club, Mondays and Fridays. She could never understand why, of all the hobbies and pursuits he could have taken up, he should give his spare time to a group of boys, but especially these who were mostly from Bog's End and would be a rowdy crew. He had never been fond of
children. She knew he could have done without having even a daughter, and he had certainly seen to it over the years that she herself did not fall pregnant again.
12. By the end of the week her fears had subsided, for he was still acting normally; at least he was keeping to character. She had quizzed Andrew as to how the staff viewed his attitude, and he had said that at least those in the workshop felt he had obviously decided to make the best of a bad job, and that he must have thought it a bad job when Mr.
Brooker had picked Joe Stanhope to take his place in the running of the Works. But then, as everybody knew, Joe had been there a long time and been head of the workshop and what he didn't know about cars wasn't worth learning.
Her husband had taken all this without any show of retaliation. There was something wrong somewhere. It was this feeling of wanting to find out more that caused her, on the Friday night, to pay her first visit to Henry's cottage.
It was getting dusk when she left the house, but she knew her way, for she had made it her business in the daylight to find out where it lay.
And now, having left her car in the lane, she knocked on the door.
It was some time before it was opened; and there he was in his
shirt-sleeves. He was standing with his back to the light of the room and so she couldn't see the expression on his face, but his voice told her of his pleasure when he said, "Oh, my dear, come in.
Come in," and his two hands drew her immediately into a long room.
"I've just finished washing up," he said.
"Fries seem easy until you've got to tackle the greasy dishes. Sit down. Sit down. Come to the fire."
He led her down the room towards a large, stone, open fireplace where a log fire was burning.
"I've just lit it," he said.
"It's the first time this year, but it was turning cold. I love a log fire." He kept talking as he pressed her down on to the cushions of a large wicker couch. Then, dropping down on to the edge of it, his hands still holding hers, he said, "Oh, my dear. I'm ... I'm delighted to see you. But how did you find your way? It's nearly dark."
She spoke for the first time, saying, "I ... I did some detective work during the week."
They were looking at each other in silence; then the realisation of her intention straightaway brought them clinging tightly together, their mouths hungry to express their feelings. When it was over they lay, their cheeks against the cushion, their glances holding tight.
And when he said softly, "I've got to say it out aloud: I love you.
Lizzie. I never thought I'd say that to a woman ever again in my life;
but I do, I love you. "
She put her hand up and touched his cheek. There was a light stubble on it. She did not say iz6
now, "And I love you. Henry," but "How old are you?"
He smiled as he said, "Forty-two and I'm sticking to that right to the very last day, because I'll be forty-three next
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